


Game Face

by mypetelephant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mypetelephant/pseuds/mypetelephant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three years since Blaise last saw Oliver, and Blaise could swear that he's over the man he's had a crush on for more than a decade. But with Oliver back in town, Blaise finds his own self-deception wearing thin. </p><p>Sequel to Synthetic Bonds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a sequel to Synthetic Bonds about Blaise and Oliver for a while, but it took me a while to think of a story that I liked. I'm excited to get back into the Synthetic Bonds world, and yes, Harry and Draco will be making reappearances.
> 
> For people who haven't read Synthetic Bonds, I've tried to write this so you that you don't need to. But as a warning, this is a non-magic AU set ambiguously in a fictional version of the US where gay marriage doesn't raise eyebrows and soccer is as popular as it should be.
> 
> For those of you who have read Synthetic Bonds, thanks for continuing on to this story! Some of you will probably remember that sometimes, my updates are a bit sparse. Unfortunately, my schedule is even more annoying than it was when I was writing Synthetic Bonds, but my goal is to have at least one chapter up per month. I know that's not very fast, but I promise that the whole story will be written.
> 
> Major thanks to my beta, Rozeable1/emptycarouselsatsunset!

The grass was cold against Blaise's face, which reminded him that now was not the time to get too comfortable. He quickly pushed himself up and scanned the field. There had to be only a few minutes left in the game, and while his team was in the lead, it was hardly an assured victory. He'd just been engaged in a long battle the other team had tried relentlessly—though unsuccessfully—to organize a strike against him. It was a welcome relief to find that his team had taken the ball back and was driving it down to the other side, but Baise was still ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.

The ball was going towards the other team's goal right now, gliding through the air at high speed. Blaise was holding his breath as he tried to will the ball into the goal, but instead, it bounced off a post and into the goalie's arms. Readying himself for the return, Blaise watched as number five from the other team charged towards him with the ball, weaving his way through the defense with the assured grace he was becoming known for. But Blaise had watched him play and studied his tendencies down to the way he liked to twitch his wrist in the direction he was going to kick. The movement was so small that Blaise was still not sure if he was making it all up. But players all have their little quirks, and he didn't have time to doubt that he'd found number five's.

And there it was, the little movement that told Blaise that the ball was going to number seven. He called it out, and five raised his head in surprise. It threw him off, and that was just the second Blaise's team needed to catch him, stealing the ball back until finally, the shrill sound of a whistle signaled their victory and was followed by an overwhelming mash-up of human voices and horns.

Thirty minutes later, Blaise was still soaked in sweat, his shorts practically stuck to his thighs. But it was hard to worry about being dirty when his team didn't seem to be done celebrating. The Cannons, as they'd let themselves be known, hadn't made it to the national finals in almost a decade, and they'd finally secured themselves a spot. Post-game shenanigan ideas were being thrown around, and everyone seemed to be slowly coming to a consensus on where to head for the night. Even the ones with family who usually headed in early were planning to stay out late. It was a special occasion, and Blaise had no desire to miss it. There were very few people for whom Blaise was willing to make a fool of himself with. The group of men he practiced and traveled with on a regular basis were among the honored few.

A loud voice sounded over the chants, somehow managing to be heard over a resounding rendition of what sounded like fifty different songs.

"SHUT UP!"

A room full of some of the world's finest athletes, and all it took was the booming voice of their manager Greg Harrison to make them all be quiet. Harrison was staring sternly at them, the blue in his sweater bringing out a steely glint in his eye. No one made a sound, worried about where the famously mercurial coach's mood would take him now.

Then, out of nowhere, he smiled broadly. There was a collective sigh of relief as he said, "Now that I know you can play like this, we're going to push you harder in practice."

It was closest thing they were going to get to praise from him, so everyone stifled their groans. It was hard to imagine how practice could get more difficult. Blaise still had bruises in places he didn't know could bruise. Someone would have to warn the medical staff though; there was sure to be an influx of players with physical ailments coming in. The fact that they wouldn't be having any important games for a few weeks confirmed that Harrison had only misery and pain in store for them.

Harrison went through a list of his highlights from the game, calling out a spectacular goal and several brilliant moments in defense. Blaise was surprised to hear his own name called, and when he raised his head, he was glad to see that Harrison was still smiling. "Great job today." And that was that. It was more than enough.

He continued on. "The Grant University soccer team came to watch today. Their coach asked if it would be okay to bring them around to meet you guys when you're all showered up. I'd like it if you'd all show up."

There was a general murmur of assent. The Grant coach must have some good connections. Harrison wasn't renowned for his generosity—he'd refused many an attractive model or pop star's request to meet the team, much to the chagrin of the single men. Blaise was curious to meet the person who managed to work his way through Harrison's usually rigorous set of rules.

Blaise was the last to finish getting ready, which wasn't surprising. He had a steadfast routine that his teammates had long given up making fun of. He'd even noticed some of them trying to quietly check out the labels on his lotion bottles, which usually coincided with them buying the lotion a week later. Overall, he thought the average skin quality on his team had improved significantly over the course of his time there.

He left the quiet locker room and walked down the hall to where a louder commotion could be heard. A group of young men were chatting with his own teammates, their faces clearly marked with excitement and awe. Blaise crept in quietly, standing towards the back as he grabbed a bottle of water and studiously started drinking it. He never knew what to do in these situations. Standing quietly and waiting for people to talk to him usually worked well. Pansy and Draco both made fun of him for not being more forward, but it's not like Blaise needed to approach people. He thought a certain air of unapproachability suited him, if only because it allowed him to be at his laziest.

He still couldn't see who this mysterious university coach was though, so Blaise decided to stand in the periphery of a nearby circle in the hopes that he might get some more clues. His teammates were recounting the finer details of the game to a small group of college soccer players. It was fun to listen to, but hardly helpful. He nodded his head in time to the conversation, throwing in the right laughter in response to the appropriate cues. He was considering whether he should contribute to the recap, considering several points of the game that might be amusing to go over again. There was the time one of the players on the other team had pretend to fall in the hopes that he could get the referee to call a foul on the Cannons, only to find the referee threatening to give him a yellow card if he didn't stop clutching his arm.

Before he could enter the conversation, he felt a light tap on his elbow. Harrison was behind him, and he leaned forward to say, "You should meet their coach." Blaise shot him a confused look. It was one thing for him to be curious; it was another for Harrison to somehow acknowledge that curiosity without Blaise saying anything. "I think you two know each other. He says he went to that fancy high school you went to."

Blaise followed Harrison through the crowd. There were other pockets of college players chattering away. They were wearing their school jerseys, a deep crimson that stood out against the navy of the Cannon's jackets. Only one of them was wearing a bright green jersey, and the look of admiration he shot Blaise seemed to confirm that he was their goalie. Blaise gave him a little nod, but continued the trajectory Harrison had set out for him.

"That's him," Harrison said, pointing towards a man who was a few feet away from Blaise. Blaise could only see him from the back for now: tall, built, brown-haired. It was all very generic handsome-man-from-behind as far as Blaise could see. But then he heard the man laugh, and Blaise knew he knew that laugh. He'd first heard it ten years ago, and it was a sound he'd always loved hearing. The man turned around, and Blaise saw that smile.

Oliver Wood.

*.*.*.*

_Four years ago_

Oliver was smiling at him, and Blaise could barely believe his luck. He'd managed to make it through three whole dances without making a fool of himself in front of a man he'd had a crush on since high school. In fact, Oliver seemed to be enjoying his company. Maybe Draco blackmailing him into asking Oliver to dance wouldn't be such a disaster after all. There had to be plenty of other relationships that had a solid foundation in blackmail. Hell, Harry and Draco hadn't even liked each other when they first got engaged, so at least Blaise and Oliver had a headstart on not hating each other.

Speaking of the happy couple, Draco and Harry were turning slowly on the dance floor. Draco's head resting against Harry's chest, and Harry seemed to be whispering something into his ear. The shine off their new wedding bands made something twinge in Blaise's stomach—he suspected that this is what envy felt like.

"You know," came Oliver's voice, warm against Blaise's cheek, "I never would've put those two together."

"I don't think any of us would have. Remember our first practice in high school?"

Blaise had been in the same year as Harry and Draco, and their class would never be able to live down the epic battle down that had taken place on the soccer field when Harry and Draco realized that they would both be trying out for the same team. At the time, he'd sided with Draco out of loyalty. Looking back though, Blaise couldn't help but wonder if the initial tumult of Harry and Draco's acquaintance hadn't been a bit misguided. Certainly, if they had discovered that they were so happy together now, they could have been happy much earlier if it weren't for their egos. And truly, in all the years that Blaise had known Draco, he had never seen him as happy as when he was with Potter.

"Of course," Wood replied, reminding Blaise that he'd asked a question before going down his own internal monologue. "How could I forget? That was my first year as captain, and I was terrified that I'd completely failed before the season even began."

"Well, you managed to tear them apart before the coaches saw, so clearly you did something right."

"I remember that you were standing in the back looking like you were trying not to laugh."

"I've known Draco for most of my life, but that was my first time seeing him with grass stains in his hair. Besides, I thought I was being subtle."

"Just because you're quiet doesn't mean you're subtle."

Blaise wasn't sure, but it seemed like Oliver's arm pulled him in closer as he said that, but he must have been imagining it. "Okay, I was at least going for unnoticed."

"It's hard not to notice you, Blaise." This time, Blaise could swear he felt Oliver's lips brush deliberately against his ear.

*.*.*.*

_Present Day_

Blaise froze, which was awkward because Oliver was extending his hand out to him and saying words that Blaise was sure he was supposed to be responding to. Oliver's hand was in his, and Blaise tried to shake his hand without actually feeling it. This only resulted in a sort of limp handshake, and he instantly regretted it. He wasn't sure what he was feeling—it was like someone fed him a meal made of excitement, anxiety, dread, and happiness, and while he wasn't sure what flavor that made up, it did seem to be vomit-worthy. It had been over three years since Oliver had left to play in London, which meant that it had been three years since Blaise had seen him.

"How are you?" he asked, hoping his voice didn't reveal any shake. "I heard about your injury," he added, glancing at Oliver's shoulder. Of course, everyone had heard about Oliver's injury. The image of him clutching his shoulder in agony had been pasted on every sports site and soccer blog. From thousands of miles away, Blaise could only watch in horror. Oliver wasn't the sort of player to let an injury stop him—in high school, he'd played with a twisted ankle until the coach realized what was happening and made him come off the field.

"Yeah, it was rough."

"I didn't know you were going to be coaching at Grant." Blaise stopped himself before he added that he didn't even know Oliver was back in town.

"It was kind of a last minute decision. Their old coach got too sick halfway through the season, and he was looking around. One of my old teammates told me about it, and here I am. I was going to call you, but I've been so busy with moving and getting everything set up…."

Blaise let Oliver's voice trail off, not wanting to hear him make excuses when Blaise worried that maybe he didn't merit one. "So it's true then?" he said, diverting the conversation. "You really can't play anymore."

"Nope." He shrugged as if resigned to his fate, but Blaise suspected it would take longer for Oliver to truly accept the decision. "I almost punched the doctor when he told me."

"You should have punched Ronald," Blaise noted grimly, naming the player who had been the cause of Oliver's injury.

"You saw it then?"

"Of course. I watched all of your games." He sounded more like a besotted high school student than he intended, and Blaise instantly felt his cheeks heat up. He thought he saw the corner of Oliver's mouth twitch. "I still don't understand how he managed to get away with running on top of your shoulder."

"You and half of London." Oliver's grin was much more obvious now. God, Blaise had missed that smile.

"I heard he couldn't show his face in public for a week."

"It's nice to know that a shoulder can drive a city to defend your honor."

"The last I read, you were thinking of playing for a lower level league."

"I was thinking about it, but I had a good run, you know?" He still had that look of trying to convince himself that he was being sincere, but as he continued on, Oliver sounded more sure. "Coaching is fun though. They're a great team, and it reminds me a bit of being captain back in school. Plus," Oliver added, with a sincere look that made Blaise's stomach tighten, "it's nice to be home.

And with that, Blaise responded the only way he could. "It's nice to have you home."

*.*.*.*

_Four years ago_

"Hold on, I need to finish my glass," Blaise said as he downed the champagne. It was probably sacrilege to chug this champagne, but his mother wasn't around to chide him.

"Come on," Oliver said for the tenth time, reaching a whiny pitch that Blaise was just drunk enough to find endearing. "I want to show you something."

"I hope this doesn't involve me having to meet more people. I've already had to talk to three strangers tonight, and I'd rather not go through that again."

"No, no, no," Oliver assured hurriedly. "No people. Just come on!"

Blaise let himself be dragged from the table. Not that Oliver's tight grip around his wrist aroused much resistance. Truth be told, the only reason Blaise was delaying was because he didn't want Oliver to let go.

Oliver pulled him towards the back of the hall. The guests were starting to thin out now, and a crowd was gathered around the coat check as expensive furs and tailored jackets were distributed around. Blaise and Oliver were both staying in the hotel, so it didn't seem strange to pass them by. Blaise nearly tripped as Oliver wove him through the crowd. He quickened his steps to keep up, wondering where Oliver could possible taking him with such urgency.

They were at the elevators now. Oliver pressed the "up" button once—then three more times in rapid succession when the elevator failed to materialize.

"It's an elevator, Wood. It's not magically going to appear just because you jam your thumb into it."

Blaise's comment went unnoticed though because just then, the elevator doors opened and Oliver tugged him inside. Before the doors were even closed, Blaise felt himself get pushed up onto the wall, and suddenly he was warm. Very warm. There was a chest against his, and legs and hips and hands.

And lips.

Oliver's lips were on his.

Oliver was kissing him.

Oliver. Kissing. Him.

Blaise's brain was on high alert. Something was wrong. Everything was perfect, and that meant something was wrong.

Oliver Wood was kissing him, and Blaise was so caught up in trying to figure out what alternate universe he was caught up in where (finally!): Oliver Wood was kissing him.

Then just as suddenly as it started, it ended. There was cold across Blaise's lips where Oliver had left a gap between them. The elevator doors had just opened. "Er, sorry," Oliver said, and with nothing else said between them, he turned and left.

Blaise stood there, unsure of whether his legs had locked up or his brain had just stopped functioning. Paralysis by high school crush—that would be a new one to tell the doctors. He didn't move, riding the elevator back down as he tried to wrap his mind around what had just happened. A light ping sounded, and the elevator doors opened. A black-haired man was holding up a blond man, the two of them giggling as they stumbled into the elevator.

"Blaise!" Harry said loudly. "Look, Draco, it's Blaise!"

"Is it?" Draco was glancing around wildly, as if Harry frequently lied about Blaise's proximity. "Where?"

The sight of them helped penetrate through the temporary fog, and Blaise looked at them both in bemused silence until finally, Draco seemed to realize he was standing right in front of him. "Blaise!" he shouted. "Guess what?"

"What?"

"I'm married!"

"Are you?"

Draco paused at the question, not entirely aware of the amused tinge to Blaise's voice. "Harry," he said, lowering his voice slightly. "We're married, right?"

"Yes, Draco. We have the rings and everything."

"Oh. Right." Draco's face brightened. "See, Blaise," he waved his right hand in Blaise's face. "Married! And we're going to have sex! All of it!"

"I think you've got the wrong hand up, dear," Harry volunteered, taking Draco's other hand and putting it in Blaise's face for him. "See, now you can properly miss Blaise's sarcasm properly while telling him far too much information."

"I don't know if I should find you two adorable or disgusting."

"Don't hate us because we're going to have more sex than you tonight."

Blaise tensed, but tried to shake the comment off with a laugh.

"Come on, Draco," Harry said, grinning apologetically at Blaise. "It's not a competition."

"It is when I'm winning."

"I thought I saw you leave with Oliver," Harry noted. "Where did he go?"

Dammit, Harry.

"Nothing," he said, shrugging while feeling his body tense further. "We were just both tired. I realized that I forgot something at the reception, so I went back down to get it."

"But you didn't get out of the elevator."

"What are you talking about?'

"When Draco and I got into the elevator, you were already here. You came down with the elevator, but you didn't get out."

"That's not true."

"It is!" Draco had just rejoined the conversation with some inconvenient insight. "What happened? Did you finally confess that you've had a crush on him since our first day of soccer practice?"

"Of course not."

"Well, did something happen then?"

"No."

Draco leaned forwards and squinted, engaged in the drunken equivalent of what he must have thought was careful suspicion. "You're lying!" he declared, practically spitting as he said it.

"I'm not lying," Blaise replied, engaging every trick he knew to cover up the truth.

"Yeah, you are. You're turning pink!"

"For the hundredth time, Draco, I don't turn pink."

"You do! When you blush, you turn pink. And you only blush when Oliver is involved."

"I am not capable of turning pink."

"Well, you do it anyway."

The elevator opened again. Blaise felt himself slacken when he saw Oliver standing outside the door. This whole elevator ride was starting to feel like some kind of cosmic joke, but it would have been a lot funnier if it were happening to someone else. Harry and Draco stared at them both. Oliver bit his lip, then stepped inside. Blaise felt like Oliver was trying to avoid looking at him.

"Got off at the wrong floor," Oliver mumbled to Blaise as he stood next to him. Blaise nodded, but all he could think about was the fact that Oliver's hand had—for all of one second—just brushed against his own.

Draco was staring at them, any semblance of subtlety having vanished approximately five drinks ago. Harry tried to quietly elbow him, presumably to wordlessly tell him to stop being so damn obvious, but that only earned a loud, "OW! What did you do that for?" making the rest of the ride even more awkward.

It turned out that Oliver and Blaise were staying on the same floor. He wasn't sure how he hadn't realized that earlier, but when they both clumsily staggered out of the elevator together, Blaise could have sworn he heard Draco start giggling into Harry's shoulder.

The elevator door closed behind them with that telltale *ping*, and Blaise suddenly wished he had just stayed on and rode it all night.

"Sorry," Oliver said. "About earlier."

"Why?"

"I mean, you didn't really seem to…you know—like it. I was probably just getting carried away. I mean, we had fun and everything tonight, so I just thought…well…." Oliver glanced around the hallway, and it seemed for the first time in all the years that Blaise had known him that Oliver looked flustered. "Well, anyway. If you could just forget about it. Or not. I mean, it's up to you."

"Um, right."

"Well." Oliver stopped in front of his room and opened the door. "Good night." And before Blaise had a chance to reply, Oliver had closed the door with a depressing thud behind him.

Blaise entered his own room and collapsed on the bed, slamming his face repeatedly into the undone comforters. Everything would be easier if he could just do things without thinking of all the ways he would inevitably fail. How could he just stand there and not do anything when the culmination of ten years worth of awkward sexual frustration had practically solved itself.

"Fuck it," he said after having berated himself for a good three minutes. He dug his hand through his pocket and grabbed a flask. Taking a small swig, he could feel the taste of scotch burn through his throat. It felt like courage, he decided. Or stupidity. But maybe that was what courage was.

He got up and stuffed his key into his pocket. The haze of alcohol was just starting to hit his system, and he needed to take this one moment of his brain shutting up to do what needed to be done.

By the time he was across the hall and knocking on Oliver's door, he was already starting to doubt himself. And when Oliver opened the door, Blaise was almost ready to sprint back to his room. But Oliver had undone his tie so that it was hanging loosely around his throat, and his sleeves were pushed up to reveal the muscle of his forearm. And that did Blaise in. He opened the door wider, and while shooting him a questioning look, Oliver stepped back to let him enter. Blaise closed the door, then slid his hand along the loose tie as he pulled it off Oliver.

This time, when Oliver kissed him, Blaise was ready.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Rozeable1 for betaing.

_Present_  

The bar was decked in the team's colors, and the bartenders were quite liberal with their draught as they poured out mugs for the players. The chants from the locker room had carried over, and with the addition of beer and fans, seemed to have gradually increased in volume until it was an all encompassing buzzing sound. Every so often, the noise would settle into a more manageable hum, only to be interrupted by another round of cheers. It was the sort of situation that would usually irritate Blaise, but it was hard not to get caught up in the excitement. Even Oliver would periodically join in, raising his glass to join in with the cheers.

It had been so long since Blaise had talked to Oliver that he'd forgotten what it was like to fumble over his words. But with the loud noises making conversation challenging, Blaise discovered that there were certain advantages to crowds. For one, he often had to repeat things he said so he could be heard, giving him several chances to revise his words into something less awkward.

They were sitting next to each other on a cushioned bench, surrounded by some of the older students on Oliver's team. Blaise tried to focus on finding their presence neutral at best. He didn't need time alone with Oliver, he kept telling himself. He wasn't greedy. He didn't want all of Oliver's time or stories or laughter. He didn't feel some vestigial need for Oliver to focus all his attention on him.

He hadn't noticed that Oliver's thigh was perfectly aligned against his own. Certainly not.

Oliver had turned his head to say something to him, but Blaise could barely hear him.

"Sorry, did you just say something?" Blaise asked loudly.

Oliver leaned in closer. "I was just asking whether you'd heard from Harry and Draco recently."

"Yeah, we still hang out a bit. You haven't talked to them yet?"

"No, I haven't had time to talk to anyone. You're probably the first person I've talked to since I got back."

Blaise ignored the warmth he felt flow through him at that. It was just the alcohol, he told himself. Oliver's words had nothing to do with it. "They're having a baby," he announced.

"You have rabies?" Oliver pulled back, looking extremely concerned.

"No, Harry and Draco." Blaise cradled his arms and rocked them back and forth. "Baby."

"No way!"

"If you talk to them, don't mention nursery colors." Moving closer, he added, "If Draco didn't love Harry so much, I'm pretty sure he would have left him for suggesting that shade of green."

"I'll make sure not to ask about baby names either."

"Good choice."

Blaise could almost feel Oliver's stubble against his lips, they were so close. For a second, the noise from the crowd seemed to not be there at all, and all he had to do was lean forward one more inch to completely shut them. One more inch, and he could claim Oliver as his.

Except Oliver wasn't his.

Blaise pulled back, the voices around him crashing back into his ears as he took a long sip of beer. He was okay with Oliver here, he kept telling himself. All he had to do was get past tonight, and then he and Oliver would probably go back to never seeing each other again. And that would be fine.

Just fine.

*.*.*.*

_Four years ago_

There were sounds of children laughing and water splashing in the background of the other line, but the irritation in Draco's voice cut through all of those joyous sounds. "Blaise, you're going to regret this."

"I'm pretty sure I won't," Blaise repeated, pacing back and forth across his living room as he talked into the phone..

"You can call it 'casual' all you want, but hooking up with Oliver is something you're going to regret."

"You and I hooked up for years, and I don't think either of us regretted it."

"Yeah, but neither of us were secretly in love with each other."

"Thank god for that," interjected Harry from a distance.

"Do you have me on speaker phone?" Blaise asked, a bit outraged that his personal life was being broadcast to a whole beach.

"If you interrupt my honeymoon with tales of your romantic incompetence, you have to follow my rules." Blaise could only imagine the smug smile Draco was wearing at this point.

"It's not incompetence."

"He's right, Blaise," Harry interrupted again. "You're going to regret this."

"Last time I checked, you two were the ones who were all, 'Oooh, Blaise, ask Oliver to dance or I'm going to tell everyone about that time twenty years ago that you starred in a children's diarrhea medication commercial.'"

"That was Draco, not me. And you'll be happy to know that he still hasn't shown me the video."

"I have to have some kind of honor if my blackmail threats are going to be meaningful," Draco said.

"The point," Blaise said, raising his voice, "is that this is all your guys' fault."

Draco sighed. "I told you to ask him to dance because I thought that if you actually talked to him, you might get around to asking him out on a date. I didn't mean for you to skip the whole date thing entirely."

"You can't see it, but Draco's upset," Harry contributed unhelpfully.

"Does his forehead have that line in it?" Blaise asked.

"Yeah, there's one."

"As long as he doesn't get two, then he's not really that upset."

"Yeah, but I have to put up with him when he's in the one-line forehead mood, so tell him he's right so I can enjoy my honeymoon," Harry demanded. "Please."

"No."

"Can you at least promise that you'll consider the possibility that he's right?"

"No."

"Okay," and it was apparent from Harry's voice that he had given up on Blaise. "Draco, can you pretend to be supportive of Blaise's decisions long enough for us to go to our massage at three?"

"Fine. But only if I get to say 'I told you so' when this inevitably blows up in his face."

"You can make a song out of it for all I care."

"Don't put too much time into it though," Blaise said, "this isn't going to blow up. That's the whole point of it being casual. Nothing can go wrong."

 

*.*.*.*

_Present day_

Oliver's shoulder was still pressed against Blaise's, and while there were plenty of opportunities for him to move away, Oliver didn't see interested in taking them. Blaise could almost count the wrinkles in the shirt that pressed into his arm. Blaise tried to will himself to move away, to put some—any—distance between him and Oliver, but he immediately came up with a list of excuses not to. It would be rude, wouldn't it? It would be the equivalent of telling Oliver he found him physically repulsive. So what if their knees were touching? So what if he could see the shape of Oliver's thighs outlined along his pants? He could stand it.

The sounds of the party were starting to die down, filtering out as the prospect of sleep overwhelmed the desire to keep celebrating. But Blaise found himself resorting to small contrivances to keep the conversation with Oliver going. Even without the crowd though, the music in the bar was pounding.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" Oliver asked. "It's a bit hard to hear."

"Most places are probably closed now," Blaise replied, suppressing the urge to draw out the night. But then he blurted out the words he knew he shouldn't have. "But my place is right around the corner."

Fuck. Fuck, shit, damn. There was no way that sounded like anything but a cheap attempt to take Oliver home for the night. There went Blaise's plan to not sound like a desperate, blustering idiot for the night.

"That sounds good actually," Oliver said. He didn't make any indication towards assuming anything more out of Blaise's words, and Blaise let any anxiety he felt over his perceived awkwardness slide away as they began to grab their belongings.

The night was cooler than Blaise had expected, a sign of impending autumn. He tightened his jacket around him as he exited the door, then looked back to make sure Oliver was following him. With the fresh air cooling his senses, he remembered that he should keep his distance from Oliver. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and quietly led the way. Oliver didn't seem to notice, content to chatter away about what it was like to be in his old hometown again. He remarked on new restaurants and stores, periodically stopping to ask Blaise if a certain building had been there before. Blaise couldn't help but smile as he watched Oliver track everything like an excited child.

Oliver was still talking when Blaise opened the door to his apartment. As they walked in, Blaise realized that this was the first moment he'd been alone with Oliver all day. If he'd been nervous before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. It was as if Blaise had used the presence of so many people to dilute the sensation of Oliver's presence. And now that there was no one else, the only thing Blaise could focus on was Oliver.

"This place is new," Oliver noted as he walked towards the window and examined the view. "Got tired of living downtown?"

"Yeah. I didn't want to keep wading through traffic just to get home."

"I remember you used to always complain about it. I didn't think it was that bad."

"You don't feel as strongly about tourists as I do."

"This area does seem to suit you better," Oliver noted as he continued his appraisal of the street under Blaise's window. It was lined with the kind of buildings that made preservation societies weak in the knees. "It's quieter, but still close enough to things for you to pretend you've interacted with people." He grinned at Blaise at his final statement.

Blaise smiled back. "It's like you think you've got me all figured out."

"Don't worry," Oliver replied, "I'll let you have your air of mystery."

Blaise walked towards the kitchen to get two glasses of water. He wanted to ignore the feeling of Oliver's eyes following him, but the more he tried, the more self-conscious he became. By the time he came back to the living room, Oliver was sitting on one of the couches, his shoes off and feet resting on the table. As Blaise handed one of the glasses to Oliver, their fingertips brushed for a moment. It was a good thing Oliver had already gotten ahold of the glass; Blaise was sure he would have dropped it at that touch. He sat down on an armchair next to the couch Oliver had chosen.

"Where are you living now?" Blaise asked after taking a sip of water.

"I got a place near the university."

"I bet it's across the street from the field."

Oliver smiled again. "And you're accusing me of having you all figured out?"

"I just can't imagine you living more than a mile away from a field. You'd probably live in the locker room if they let you."

"Why not? It has showers."

"And the lingering odor of sweaty men."

"I think I've become numb to it. I guess the only downside is that it might be hard to bring people home."

"You mean you don't sneak all your conquests to the field?"

"I'd hardly call you a conquest," Oliver noted. His eyes flickered over Blaise with more intent than Blaise had seen in a long while. In that second, it was silent in the apartment. The first full silence Blaise had felt all day, and it was filled with sight of Oliver watching him. With a cough, Oliver broke the quiet. He tilted his head back to finish the glass of water in one long gulp. "And if I recall correctly," he continued, "that was your idea. Something about wanting to desecrate enemy territory?"

"We lost to you guys that day," Blaise recalled bitterly. Oliver had played for Panthers, a team that just so happened to share a city and deep rivalry with the Cannons. "You can't blame me." He tried to focus on remembering how angry he'd been about the numerous bad plays that had led to that loss, if only to keep his mind off the feeling of grinding his hips into Oliver's ass as their knees flattened small patches of field.

Oliver coughed again, and Blaise didn't doubt that he was remembering the finer details of that night. "Well, after everything that happened with the Panthers, I can't say I regret it."

"It wasn't your fault they were a bunch of dicks about you going abroad."

"I was their teammate."

"You were their whipping boy," Blaise said, resisting the urge to take Oliver's hand in his. "Every time you guys lost, they would pretend it was all your fault because they were so caught up in believing their offense was infallible. You weren't happy with them."

"Yeah, you're right. I guess being back is bringing back some of those memories."

"Did you like playing in London?"

"It was like night and day. I wish I could have played there longer."

"At least you had a good run."

Oliver shrugged, his eyes looking both sad and unconvinced. "You know that's never really enough."

"I know," Blaise said apologetically. "It just seemed like what I was supposed to say."

"No, no, I appreciate it. It's a good thought. I got to play for my dream team. Not many people get to say that. I missed this city though. It hasn't changed too much since I left."

"It's only been a few years."

"Yeah. I remember when I went to college though, every time I'd come back here, it would feel like everything was different from what I remembered."

"When I came back to play for the Cannons," Blaise remembered, "everything felt completely off. But now, it feels like home, and even when things feel different, they feel the same."

"Maybe I'll just have to stick around long enough to be able to call this place home again."

"That wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

"Guess not."

Blaise stood up. Sitting was making him restless, and restless meant his mind was darting in directions that couldn't lead to anything good. He reached to grab Oliver's glass, but before he could turn to walk back towards the kitchen, Oliver grabbed his free arm.

Blaise looked back to see Oliver staring at him, his gaze marked with uncertainty. "Sorry, I know it's been a few years, and maybe I'm misreading everything...you." He loosened his grip, but he didn't let go. His hand slipped down Blaise's forearm until it rested around his wrist. A thumb brushed along Blaise's pulse.

When Blaise didn't pull away, Oliver pressed his lips against the same spot. It was almost a chaste touch, just a light moment of contact between skin. But there were a thousand things implied in that touch that conjured up images of discarded clothes and sweat and skin contact that was neither light nor chaste.

"I, uh…." Blaise could hardly respond. His throat had gone dry, and most of his body had gone completely still.

"Can I stay the night?"

 

*.*.*.*

_Three years ago_

Oliver hadn't bothered to make conversation when Blaise opened the door to let him in. He shut the door behind them and immediately grabbed at Blaise's shirt to pull him close. His knuckles were boring into the top of Blaise's chest when their lips met. Blaise pushed back, cupping one hand around Oliver's cheek as he guided him towards the bedroom. Only when they fell on the bed did Oliver let go, turning so he could straddle Blaise.

Blaise ran his hands through Oliver's wet hair, then pulled it back to expose Oliver's neck. Oliver gave a little yelp that grew into a deep moan, a sound that resonated against Blaise's lips as traced them up to Oliver's jaw.

"Bad day?" Blaise whispered against his cheek.

"Not anymore." Oliver punctuated his words with a deliberate push of his hips, his erection grinding against Blaise's through several layers of fabric. Blaise groaned, which seemed to inspire Oliver to repeat the motion again and again until they were both gasping at an erratic tempo that had lost track of the rhythm between them. Blaise ripped Oliver's shirt off him and immediately began to lay a trail of kisses down Oliver's chest. He moved his hands down to Oliver's back, the muscles gliding under his fingers as Oliver continued to grind against him.

Oliver slid off of Blaise's lap and onto the bed, grabbing Blaise by the shoulder so he would follow. "Too. Much. Clothing," Oliver said between kisses, his fingers stumbling as they unbuttoned Blaise's shirt.

"Having trouble there?" Blaise teased.

"Shut up and fuck me," Oliver growled back, giving up on Blaise's shirt with five buttons to go.

"Gladly." Blaise reached for the nightstand, grabbing a condom and bottle of lube from the drawer. Oliver had already taken his own pants off by the time he turned back. Blaise would usually love to tease Oliver further, draw this out until Oliver was begging for release. But it seemed today had gone badly for Oliver, and Blaise was more than willing to indulge his impatience. He made quick work of his own pants and tossed them aside. He was wearing just his partially undone shirt and boxers now, and he tore them off under Oliver's gaze.

Blaise watched as Oliver took the bottle of lube and opened it. He spread some across his fingers, then reached down between his legs. There was a silence except for the sound of his exhale as he slid his fingers inside. Blaise stayed still, not wanting to make any noise that would disrupt the image of Oliver touching himself so intimately. Oliver squeezed lube onto his free hand, a clumsy movement given that his other hand was occupied. Still touching himself, he wrapped his other hand around Blaise's cock. The cold lube under Oliver's warm hands made for a contradictory and intoxicating touch. Blaise curled his hands into the bedsheets, his hips beginning to grind down into Oliver's hand as he continued to stare at Oliver's fingers disappearing into himself.

Finally, his own patience had worn out. With a sharp groan, he pulled at both of Oliver's hands and pinned them above his head. With a swift movement, he was inside Oliver, the both of them crying out as their hips crashed together. Oliver's eyes closed, and he arched his neck back. Blaise still had Oliver's hands pinned above his head, but he didn't realize it until he heard Oliver say, "Please, just let me touch you," in between thrusts that shook his whole body.

Blaise let go of Oliver's hands, feeling them press down his chest and then wrap around his back and neck. He leveraged himself further over Oliver, their lips meeting in one last searing kiss before Oliver's gasps became shorter and deeper. Blaise could feel Oliver's come spread across his own stomach, but his main focus was still the intense feeling of Oliver's muscles still clenched around him. With a few more thrusts, Blaise felt his own orgasm rock through him, leaving the two of them breathing deeply as their chests rose steadily against each other.

He didn't want to let go of Oliver, but he also didn't want to spend the night with semen caked all over his chest. With a sigh, Blaise lifted himself and walked to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and stepped in. He was surprised to see that Oliver had decided to join him. Any shower he had taken with Oliver had been shared for sexual convenience. But they'd both played that day, and there was no way either of them had the energy for another round.

"Did you see the press conference today?" Oliver asked as he grabbed a bar of soap. His voice echoed strangely in the bathroom.

"No. I saw the game though. That was pretty rough."

"Yeah, I shouldn't have let that goal in," Oliver said, shaking his head. "It was an easy shot to block."

"The ball shouldn't have even gotten that close to you. Your guys' defense is getting weak."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Are you collaborating with the enemy now? Telling me our weaknesses?"

"If I thought your teammates were willing to get over their mistakes, I'd probably shut up." Blaise paused as he watched Oliver run the soap all along his body. The lather added a sheen to his muscles, but it was Oliver's cavalier approach to his own beauty that seemed most compelling to Blaise. "What happened at the press conference?" he finally asked.

"Exactly what'd you expect." Oliver's face darkened.

"They blamed you again?" Blaise asked in disbelief.

"Yeah. Said the whole game went south after I missed that save."

"That's ridiculous. If your midfield hadn't been busy diving and clutching their shins, they could have been there to save that ball. And Thompson is the worst, by the way. I don't get why everyone is making such a big deal out of him."

"He's fast, and he's got a good eye."

"He's also got an ego that makes it impossible for him to see what he needs to work on. That's going to hurt him in the long run. It's already hurting your team."

Oliver smiled grimly in response, but he didn't add anything else as he rinsed off. He grabbed a towel from the rack, and quietly left the bathroom.

Blaise was in the middle of brushing his teeth when he heard a yelp from the bedroom. He sprinted over and looked in with concern. Oliver was sitting in the bed, Blaise's comforters spread across his lower body. He was staring at his phone with a look of disbelief.

"Are you okay?" Blaise asked, spraying toothpaste everywhere.

"I'm fine," Oliver replied. He sounded breathless and he still hadn't looked away from his phone.

"Really? Because it sounded like someone stepped on a small dog in here."

"No, really. I'm good."

"Okay," Blaise replied suspiciously. "Can I ask what's going on?"

Oliver looked up apologetically. He didn't say anything, but Blaise felt it would be weird to pry. It's not like he and Oliver were dating—he wasn't entitled to any knowledge of Oliver's personal life.

He went back to the bathroom to rinse out the remnants of toothpaste still left in his mouth. When he came back to the bedroom, he pulled the covers over him and kept himself from looking over Oliver's shoulders. He did, however, try to at least ascertain Oliver's mood. His back seemed more relaxed, and he wasn't rolling his shoulder like he did when he was feeling impatient. Blaise hoped that whatever was on Oliver's phone, it was good news.

"Good night," he said, as he sunk his head onto the pillows.

Oliver set his phone on the nightstand. "Thanks for letting me stay."

"I always let you stay."

"I know. You really shouldn't. It just encourages me to be lazy."

"You could take a taxi, you know."

"Yeah, but your place is so much cleaner than mine."

"Don't worry, I'm well aware of that fact. That's the first time I've ever gotten a sock stuck in my ass before while fucking."

Oliver rested a hand on Blaise's arm, then leaned over and smugly whispered, "I made it worth your while though, didn't I?"

Blaise didn't reply

"Oh, c'mon," Oliver said with greater exasperation." That was the most turned on you've been by a sock."

Blaise turned his head, then lightly patted Oliver's cheek. "Don't worry, I won't hold it against you forever."

"That's good to know."

When Blaise woke up the next day, he saw Oliver sitting cross-legged on his bed. It was an usual sight. Oliver was an early riser, preferring to view the morning as additional time to add to his training regimen. Blaise was an even earlier riser, seeing the morning as time to shuffle around and complain about his lack of sleep.

"Good morning!" Oliver said brightly.

"Shouldn't you be running or something?"

"I need to talk to you."

"About what?"

"You have to promise not to tell anyone."

"I haven't made that promise since Draco tried to get me to keep his accidental perm a secret."

"Please?" Oliver pleaded. "I need to tell someone, even though I'm not supposed to."

"Does it have to do with whatever made you scream last night?"

"Yes. Can you keep it a secret?"

"Fine."

"Arsenal might want me."

"Arsenal? You mean, like Arsenal-in-London Arsenal?"

"Yes, that Arsenal."

Oliver looked excited, and most of Blaise was happy for him. This move could be huge for Oliver. But there was a knot in Blaise's belly as he realized what this meant: Oliver would be leaving.

"Wow, that's…wow," he managed, hoping that his own selfish thought was hidden away. "Congratulations! When do you start?"

Oliver shifted a bit. "Well, I haven't officially accepted yet."

"Why not?" Blaise asked, completely confused. "This would be incredible for you."

"I don't know how I would fare in the Premier League. They're way more competitive than we are."

"I'm sure you could handle it," Blaise said, stroking Oliver's arm. "You're amazing."

"And it's just," Oliver bit his lip. "I would have to move so far away. I can't just leave everything here. I've got a team here."

"You've got a team who makes you miserable."

"I have friends and family here too. I can't just leave them."

Blaise's chest tensed up.

"Do you think I should do it?" Oliver asked after Blaise didn't say anything.

"You're asking for my opinion?"

"Yeah, I mean, you're the only person who knows right now except for their manager and my agent. And me, I guess."

Blaise knew that Oliver deserved this. He deserved a chance to play on a team that didn't just play better, but that would treat him better. And yet a part of him wanted to tell Oliver not to go. To make the selfish choice and convince Oliver that London was too far, that the league would be too much pressure. He wanted to come up with a million reasons why London would be a terrible city to live in.

And then he realized something that he had probably known along but had tried to deny: he wanted Oliver to stay for him. He wanted Oliver to think about London and realize that the worst thing about it was that Blaise wouldn't be there. And that was when Blaise knew he had to let go.

"I think you should go to London."


End file.
